19. We’re Friends, Aren’t We?
We’re Friends, Aren’t We?
Eleanor
Thoughts of last night come rushing back, and heat floods my cheeks before I can stop it. I really need to get it together. Nik will be here any minute, and I’m blushing like a schoolgirl. How completely humiliating.
I have no idea what he’s planned for today. Before dropping me off, he’d asked for my number and told me to ‘dress comfortably.’ Which… okay, but what does that even mean? Because do girls ever actually dress comfortably on a date?
Not that this is a date. It can’t be. He’s my coach, and the last thing I need is another disaster like Soren’s.
The memory makes my heart skip a beat. I can’t believe Nik knows about that. I mean, I know the rumor spread, but this far? To him? And yet, instead of looking at me like I’m tainted, instead of believing the worst, he defends me. Advocates for me.
The thought alone sets my nerves on fire and sends butterflies whirling through my stomach.
What on earth is happening to me? The closer Nik and I get, the more the brick wall I’ve crafted for myself comes crumbing down.
Brick by brick. And that thought is unsettling.
I should be focused on my one and only goal: dance and making my mother proud.
That’s it. But Nik is slowly wiggling his way into my life, disrupting all my carefully laid plans.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Nik Kozlov?: I’m outside, ready when you are.
I dart into the bathroom one last time, standing on my tiptoes in front of the mirror to catch as much of my outfit as I can. Black flare leggings over white sneakers. A loose gray sweater layered under my dark blue puffer vest. My hair pulled into a half-up, half-down braid.
I swipe mascara over my lashes, pinch my cheeks for color, and gloss my lips with a thin coat of lip oil. Then I lean back, squinting.
Maybe it’s too much. But still, I don’t want to look sloppy. Ballet has trained me to always be put together, polished, and presentable. Old habits die hard I guess.
Not that it matters. Nik won’t care either way. He can have anyone he wants, and I probably don’t even make the list.
I grab my purse, lock my front door, and walk toward his car. The windows are fogged faintly at the edges, glowing warm against the morning chill.
Inside, the heater hums and the faint strum of an acoustic guitar drifts from the speakers. It smells faintly of mint and sandalwood.
“Hey,” I greet, buckling myself and settling my purse in my lap.
“Good morning.” Nik’s face melts into a soft smile. “Ready?”
I nod, though my stomach flips like it does when I step onstage.
If he notices, he doesn’t say a word. His smile just deepens, like he understands without needing to tease me about it. I like that. It’s his way of letting me breathe without forcing me to admit the obvious.
When we pull up to his apartment, my eyes involuntarily widen. It’s a brownstone with stairs that sweep up to a door that curves gracefully at the top, framed by two columns with delicate carvings. Large trees line the sidewalk, casting shadows across the tan brick.
It’s beautiful. Too beautiful. Nicer than anything I can ever imagine for myself. A knot forms in my stomach as my mind whispers the old refrain: I don’t belong here.
“Coming?” Nik asks, already out of the car, while I stay frozen, staring at something I can never afford.
I shake off the stupor and force myself to move. “Sorry.”
The inside of his place smells fresh with a hint of coffee lingering in the air.
Bookshelves line one wall, filled but neat.
A simple couch sits against the opposite wall, a wooden coffee table in the middle, and to the right, stairs that wind up to what I guess is his bedroom.
A record player with a small stack of vinyls leaning against it rests beside the couch.
It feels like a home. Not staged, not cluttered. Just… lived in. Everything has a purpose, nothing extra.
Before I can soak it in, a blur of black and tan fur comes barreling toward me.
I squeal and instantly crouch down as the tiny yorkie yips and paws at my shoes. “Oh my gosh, and who are you?” I coo, my voice a full octave higher.
Nik hangs his keys on a hook and turns, half-smiling. “Louie, knock it off.” Then to me he says, “Sorry. He gets excited with visitors.”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” I scratch behind Louie’s ears, grinning like an idiot. “He is the cutest.”
Nik scoffs but his smile betrays him. “He’s cute now. Wait until he tears up your favorite shoes.”
I give Louie one last rub and stand, still smiling. “I never would’ve pegged you as a dog person.”
He smirks, tugging open a barn door that slides along sleek black rails. “I’m definitely not a cat person. And Louie was a stray when I found him. I couldn’t just leave him out in the snow.” He tilts his head toward the open doorway. “Come on.”
I follow him inside and my jaw drops.
The kitchen looks like it’s been modeled from a cooking show, only scaled down.
Copper pots and pans glimmer from a rack above the sink, and brown-and-gray marble counters shine under the warm light.
Every utensil imaginable stands gathered in a white ceramic vase, while potted herbs and small succulents fill the remaining spaces.
It’s the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen.
“I take it you like to cook?” I blurt, my thoughts slipping out before I can stop them. I can’t see past the way everything gleams in this kitchen.
Nik rounds the counter, resting his palms flat against the cool marble. “Love it, actually. And baking. It’s my favorite way to spend my down time.”
I blink, finally dragging my gaze from the copper pots to his face. “You bake?”
“Yup.” He bends to rummage in the cabinets, clinking around until he returns with a wooden bowl.
I frown. “Are you… cooking now?”
His grin curves slowly, deliberate. “We are, yes.”
We?
My heart and stomach momentarily trade places. Not only am I hopeless in the kitchen, but he knows about… everything. The way food and I have always been at war. My pulse thunders in my ears.
He must notice because he sets the bowl down and walks around the counter to me. His hands rest lightly on my shoulders, warm and steady, guiding my eyes to his.
“I know food is hard for you,” he says softly. His voice drops low, like a secret just for me. “I don’t want to push you. I just thought… Maybe if you had a hand in making it, it might help. Give you a little peace of mind. But if it’s too much, we can stop. No pressure.”
The sincerity in his tone wraps around me like a blanket. I search his eyes and find no malice, no hidden edge. Just patience. Just him. I know the moment I say stop, he’ll drop everything. That certainty is the only reason I can breathe out the word that follows.
“Okay.” I nod. “We can cook.” A shaky laugh escapes me. “Though you’ll have to teach me. I’m a nightmare with a knife.”
Nik straightens, his hands falling from my shoulders. “A nightmare, hm?” His grin turns playful. “You won’t stab me with it, will you?”
I set my hands on my hips dramatically. “Only if you cross me, Kozlov.” His last name tastes strange on my tongue.
He barks a laugh and lifts his palms in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, Montgomery.”
He moves back around the counter, rummaging through cabinets.
I let myself look at him—the backward cap, the worn maroon t-shirt, gray sweatpants that slouch comfortably on his tall frame.
He really wasn’t kidding when he said to dress casual.
Heat creeps up my neck. I really shouldn’t be in his kitchen.
I’m not a part of his world, but selfishly, I’m glad I’m here.
The counter fills with things I never use: pots, pans, mixing bowls, flour, eggs, oil, salt, onions, ground beef, and an army of spices. When he’s finally satisfied, he turns back to me.
“We’re going to be making pelmeni.”
I arch a brow, eyeing the spread of ingredients. “What’s that?”
Nik claps his hands together—just like he does at rehearsals—and the sound makes me giggle.
“I’m glad you asked. It’s my favorite comfort meal.
My mom used to make it for me when I was having a bad day.
They’re Russian dumplings with a meat filling.
You can pair them with anything, but I like mine with sour cream.
” His grin is contagious, almost boyish.
I tap nervous fingers against the counter.
“That sounds… yummy.” And it does. Too yummy.
But even as the word leaves me, dread crawls up my throat.
Because I know him. I knew he’d never force me to eat.
But, how can I spend the afternoon cooking with him, hearing about his mother’s comfort food, and then not try a single bite?
The end is already written. I just don’t want to face it.
“First things first.” Nik sets flour, salt, eggs, and a mixing bowl to the side. “We need to make the dough.”
I slide off the stool and stand beside him. “From scratch?”
“Is there any other way?” He flashes a grin, pulling out measuring cups from a drawer. “Here.” He hands me one. “Four cups of flour and a pinch of salt.”
I inhale deeply. Simple enough. I scoop flour into the bowl, dusting my hands in white.
Nik smirks at my mess. “You’re not supposed to bury your whole hand in it, Elenochka.”
There it is again. That nickname. His cheeks turn pink almost instantly. “Sorry.” He shoves the eggs toward me. “Make a well in the center. Three eggs.”
I crack one carefully into the flour, curiosity gnawing at me. “What does it mean?”
His hands keep moving, dusting the counter with flour, smoothing it out. “What does what mean?”
“The name you just called me.” I crack in the second egg then the third, and whisk them in with a fork.
He stalls, puts the flour away, then comes to stand beside me.